Sleepiness
by tea-and-outer-space
Summary: When Sherlock returns home to a very sleepy John, fluffiness ensues. Post Reichenbach, Johnlock fluff.


A/N: Sorry if this is no good. I haven't written anything in a while, so my skills may be a bit out of practice. Hope you enjoy even if it is rubbish.

* * *

John let out a sigh and rolled over, making sure he didn't fall off the narrow sofa. He pulled the blanket a bit tighter around him and shut his eyes again, prepared to fall back asleep.

He typically never had slept on the sofa, preferring the open space of his bed, where he wouldn't have to worry about falling off.

However, it had been almost three years. Three long, heartbreaking years since he had witnessed his best friend kill himself. With the anniversary of Sherlock's death drawing closer, John had found himself unable to sleep. Nothing had helped, not chatting with Mrs. Hudson, or tea, or anything.

Throughout the long years since Sherlock had jumped, the flat hadn't really changed. Most of his experiments were gone, of course, but other than that his belongings lingered around the flat. His other coat and old scarf hung by the door, and his books and his laptop were on the desk. But it had all seemed so different, without Sherlock constantly using them.

But the sofa was different. Sherlock had spent many days on that sofa, it was one of his favorite spots. While thinking, or reading, or visiting the mind palace, he preferred the sofa over any other spot in the flat.

Which is probably why the sofa still smelled like him, despite his three year absence.

An odd combination of the stale disinfectant he used at St. Barts, some expensive cologne that he probably had received as a gift, and a few other scents John couldn't name.

It was a comforting, familiar smell, and it was probably the reason why John could only fall asleep on the sofa.

He was laying there with a dark knitted blanket over his shoulders, waiting for sleep to come, when someone walked into the flat. John was too tired to pay any mind to it, it was probably just Mrs. Hudson. The person walked into the flat, and John sensed then kneel in front of the sofa, right in front of John.

He cracked his eyes open a bit, and saw the face that haunted his dreams at night.

"Sherlock?" he said, it coming out a bit slurred due to his sleepiness.

The man in front of him smiled a bit.

"Yes, John," he answered, in that familiar baritone.

John sat up, propping himself up on his elbow.

"What... you're dead," he said.

"I'm not, and I never was. We can continue this in the morning, for now, you need some sleep."

John was too tired to protest, and he soon found himself lifted up. Sherlock let out a grunt at the smaller man's weight, but he managed to carry him to John's room, and he set him down on his bed.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said, before turning to walk out of the room.

"Wait," John suddenly said, and he grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's coat to make him stop walking.

"How do I know you're not gonna run off while I'm sleeping?" He questioned, fighting the sleepiness.

"I'll be right downstairs, I promise not to go," Sherlock replied.

"No," John said, "Stay."

A faint blush crossed Sherlock's face, and he looked around the room awkwardly, "There's no place to sit."

"Then lie down," John mumbled.

"B-but there's only one bed," Sherlock said, his blush deepening.

"One bed is big enough."

John moved over, leaving enough space for Sherlock to lie down. Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, before lying down on top of the covers.

"Goodnight," John said, with a sleepy smile.

Sherlock smiled back.

* * *

When sunlight broke through John's window the next morning, it shined down on two men lying in the same bed.

The taller man's arms were wrapped securely around the smaller man's, and there was a lazy smile on each of their faces. Both were awake, but neither one wanted to move, because neither wanted to get up and go about the day and pretend that this never happened.

John knew he should be mad, not just mad, furious at Sherlock for lying about his death, but in the morning bliss he couldn't seem to get mad. He'd be mad later, he decided.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, making sure that none of this was a dream.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied.

"I'm glad you're back," John said.

Deciding to go with a sudden impulse, he places a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.

He was really glad he was back.


End file.
